


Until Next Time

by LadyDorian



Series: When You're Gone [2]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Childhood Memories, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Kissing, M/M, Mentions of Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 13:26:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10877718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDorian/pseuds/LadyDorian
Summary: At every point in his life, Rick had been there, as constant and haunting as his excuses.





	Until Next Time

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a couple months before the season 3 premiere. Figures all my theories would end up invalidated.
> 
> Inspired by VELTPUNCH's "Kiss Me Next Time" -----> [(listen)](https://www.dropbox.com/s/nfwr5sszeww1a1d/08%20Kiss%20Me%20Next%20Time.m4a?dl=0)

He has faint memories of a balloon stirring in the breeze: Orange, tied to his wrist by a pale yellow string. Sand was under his feet, waves crashing in the distance, but it was that little bow wrapped around rolls of baby fat that captivated him most. He was two, two-and-a-half maybe, and Mom was holding one hand tightly, cooing about the beauty of the ocean and how refreshing the salty air felt.

Rick was on his other side, rambling on about the balloon.

“Y’see, Morty. Th-The helium displaces the air around it. And—And by Archimedes’ principle—”

Morty stared up and giggled, yanking at the string and watching the balloon bounce and sway. Far away, he could hear Summer yelling about Dad’s sandcastle being crooked and dumb. A dog barked over the two of them. Rick reached down and tousled Morty’s hair.

“When you’re older, I’ll—I’ll explain it again. You’ll understand next time.”

Morty knows he probably wouldn’t be remembering these things if not for the implants. He finds it both a curse and a blessing at times.

 

When he was five, Rick presented him with an unusual gift.

Though he didn’t _present_ it so much as he tossed it haphazardly onto his lap while Morty was sitting on the couch watching _Tom and Jerry._ Upon closer inspection, he saw it was a vial containing a viscous, neon pink liquid; when he held it up to the light, faint specks inside it began to sparkle and glow.

“S-Sorry I missed your birthday,” Rick mumbled. “B-But this should make up for it. Think of it as—like what would happen if Silly Putty and Flubber had a baby, only this stuff is slightly more toxic and may grant insects temporary intelligence.”

Morty tugged the cork off with his small, clumsy fingers and sniffed, flinching at the pungent scent reminiscent of Dad’s cooking and Mom’s hairspray. He quickly recapped it. “Th-Thanks, grandpa! I’m gonna play ‘Slime Factory’ with Summer’s Barbies!”

Rick laughed. “Have fun, ya little scamp. They don’t exactly make that stuff around here.”

“Where’d you get it, Grandpa?” Morty beamed. He’d always been a sucker for Rick’s tales. “Can I come? I want blue and purple too!”

“Maybe in a few years,” he grinned, hand waving through the air between them as if attempting to dissipate Morty’s eagerness. “Promise I’ll take you then. A-And I promise I-I-I’ll make it home for your birthday next time.”

Morty had used the pink stuff to try to have a conversation with a fire ant. It had bitten him on the arm before shouting a string of expletives in Spanish and scampering off. He rubs the spot near the inside of his right elbow, remembering how hard he’d tried not to cry at such an insignificant amount of pain.

 

Rick made good on his promise when he was nine. Too good, really, because he’d come along just in time to pull him out of a particularly tricky multiplication lesson.

Thinking back, he wonders how much he could have learned from a teacher too stupid to question Rick’s vague notion of a “family emergency.”

“Two times two is four, Morty,” he explained as they made their way down the hall, “a-and balloons float because helium i-is lighter than air. That’s all you—all you’ll ever need to know from this clown school. S-So let’s go have some fun.”

“Fun” became the understatement of the year. Rick took him out by the dumpsters and shot a strange gun at the exterior cafeteria wall; ruddy brick exploded into a swirling vortex of green and yellow. When Morty shrunk back in fear, Rick took his hand and calmly led him through the portal.

The world bled varying shades of red and purple as far as the eye could see. The grass beneath their feet was bristly and tuberous, and Rick let him run through it for what seemed like hours, kicking up mulberry clods of dirt and chasing the odd, winged creatures that scattered each time he shook a tendril.

When it came time to leave, Rick had to drag him away.

“Grandpa Rick?” he asked as Rick adjusted the dials on the portal gun. “D-Do you come here a-a-a lot?”

Rick looked down at him, then turned his eyes to the crimson sky above and laughed. “Sometimes. I go a—to a lot of different places.”

“Different colored places?”

“Yup.” He fished something shiny out of the pocket of his lab coat, but shook his head and quickly replaced it.

“F-For fun?”

“Sometimes. But most of the time it’s for work.” Rick plucked at his sleeve, checking one of the many watches on his wrist. “S-Speaking of which, your mom should be home from the clinic soon. We—we better get going.” The gun powered up with a shrill beep, Rick’s aim set on the bulbous trunk of a nearby tree. “A-And this should go without saying, but d-don’t tell your parents about our little adventure today. Don’t even brag about it to Summer. J-J-Just tell them you learned what twelve squared is.”

Morty blinked up at Rick, shrugging his shoulders.

“It’s a hundred-and-forty-four, Morty. One-forty-four.” He beckoned him towards the portal with a hand on his back, but Morty dug his heels into the ground, stubbornly resisting.

Even then, he’d always had a scheme brewing in his head.

“H-Hey, G-Grandpa R-R-Rick? If I promise not to tell anyone, c-can I come out with you again? Can I help you w-w-with your work sometimes?”

Rick stopped pushing for a moment and smiled. “Sure, ya little twerp. It’ll be a regular ‘Take Your Kid to Work Day’ around here next time. Get y—get your hands dirty. Teach you some—some real good, practical career shit. Now stop gawking at those di—pull your head out of—out of the clouds and let’s go.” With a chuckle, he urged him on again.

The clouds _were_ rather nice: A conical shape with wispy trails at the tip. He didn’t realize until much later why Rick had found them so amusing.

He swears he’ll never see a sky as red as that day. Not even if he traveled a thousand worlds more.

 

When he was twelve, he made the mistake of kissing him for the first time.

Rick’s lips were dry and chapped, despite the amount of alcohol he’d just watched him consume. He’d been staring at them ever since they’d gotten back from Dimension Zeta-J, and when Rick had finally relaxed atop a stool in front of his workbench, Morty saw the opportunity and leapt at it.

Rick wasn’t as thrilled; he shoved him back with a growl.

“M-M-Morty, what the f-f-f—”

But the fury seemed to slip from his face with each passing stutter. He sighed sullenly, and withdrew his flask. “Morty, what the hell was that?”

Morty’s heart felt as if it could have burst from his chest and sprinted to the other side of the garage. “I-I-I-I d-don’t know, R-Rick. I-I-I just…” He couldn’t answer him then, didn’t think _any_ answer would have made sense at the time. He had just simply wanted to kiss someone like he’d seen other kids doing around school and on TV.

Someone he cared about.

“I...I’m s-sorry, Gr—Rick.” He kicked his feet against the stained floor. “I-I-I was just c-c-curious.”

“Yeah?” Rick frowned and drained the last bit of liquor from his flask before lobbing the empty container towards a pile of transdimensional junk in the corner. It connected with a _thunk,_ then rolled to the floor with a series of dull _clink_ s. “W-Well, go be curious w-with someone your own age.”

“B-But Rick…” He’d been shocked at how bold his voice had sounded, for all its timidity. “I-I-I like _you._ ”

That had been his second mistake of the evening, apparent in the way Rick’s face contorted in anger and revulsion. “You _like_ me?! W-W-What the hell do you _know_ about me, Morty? Y-You think th-that because we have fun together a-a-and go on adventures and shit that—that you— _Christ…”_ He pushed himself off the stool and went tearing through a stack of nearby boxes, mumbling about needing another fucking drink. When he found a full bottle of clear fluid, he drank close to a quarter in one swig, then spun around to face him again. “You doEEUURRnn’t want to like a—a person like me, M-Morty.” Disappointment hung in bags beneath his eyes. “T-Trust me, Morty. _Please_.”

The lump in Morty’s throat felt ten times the size it had been when he’d first leaned forward and pressed their lips together. He whimpered in an attempt to ease it back down. “I-I’m sorry, R-Rick. I-I-It won’t happen a-again.”

“G-Good.” Big droplets of spittle flew in Morty’s direction. “Because if it does, you better have a-a-a damn good excuse next time.”

Rick’s look of disillusionment seemed a persistent feature after that. It hid in the shadows each time they were together, surfacing in small gasps after each kiss, each restless night, each morning Rick would slink out of his bed when he thought he was still fast asleep. Morty may have gotten what he’d wanted, but it was like Rick had changed in the process. And whether that change was for the better, well...Morty tried not to think about it. If Rick was with him, it couldn’t have been all that bad. Right?

He’ll never know for sure. He’d always been too afraid to ask, too selfish to acknowledge the crippling sadness in Rick’s eyes.

 

He’d glimpsed that expression for the last time on the morning of his death: Twenty-nine days after his fourteenth birthday, head full of awe and excitement, dreams of high school and more adventures and endless amounts of stolen kisses.

Viscera spilling out from his shattered eye socket, down his cheek and onto the leg of Rick’s pants as he cradled him in his lap.

_“Morty! Morty!”_

Morty had tried to respond, but couldn’t move his lips. Struggling to cast his good eye downward, he saw his legs mangled, clothing soaked in blood. He tried to blink a message to Rick through the excruciating pain.

_I’m sorry, Rick. I shouldn’t have tripped. Please. Please help me._

_“Morty! Don’t do this to me!”_

Rick shuddered silently, mouthing something close to _I’m sorry, Morty_. He gently placed Morty’s head back onto the ground, then bent over and pried the crystals they’d been after from his clutching fingers.

Morty screamed inside his head.

“I swear, Morty,” Rick shouted, “I won’t let this happen again! Things will be different next time! I swear, Morty! I—”

He heard Rick fire two blaster shots, followed by the unmistakable screeching of injured Glorpocks.

And then came the muffled sound of feet hitting dirt. After that, there was only silence.

He never would have survived if that band of X’tarrgans hadn’t stumbled upon him shortly after Rick’s retreat. Had he not been stuffed to the brim with circuitry and tech, billed as another great experiment. A marvel of modern science.

A shell full of old memories.

When he sits alone in the darkness, even on nights surrounded by his toys—bastardized droid-Ricks and mind-controlled horrors—he often wishes he hadn’t made it through that day.

Sleep would have come so much easier.

 

When he saw Rick cry for the first time in his life, he’d been at a loss for words.

He hadn’t so much as shed a tear when he’d been torn apart by the Glorpocks a year ago, but now— _now_ —while images of their lives merged into a pitiful highlight reel on the screen before them, Rick had decided to become _emotional_. He tried to hide it, but Morty could see his eyes glaze over, could hear the soft sniffling as he fought to keep his remorse at bay.

Was it truly remorse? Or had Morty only hoped for it?

They very well may have been crocodile tears for all he knew; Morty couldn’t deny the sight of them did something to him. He sat behind his surveillance monitor, watching his Rick through the eyes of another, and broke down sobbing.

 _Ricks don’t care about Mortys. They don’t care about Mortys._ He repeated it in his head like some kind of mantra. But the tears kept flowing.

 _If he knew_ — _if he only knew I was still alive, how would he react?_

Morty couldn’t bear to entertain the fantasy of how this revelation might play out, his thoughts caught somewhere between burying his face in Rick’s chest and crying, and having Rick outright disown him in favor of his new grandson.

 _The faux Morty_.

He could have stopped him, was at least a thousand times smarter and faster than him, infinitely more clever. But he let the imposter spring Rick free because of some stupid hope he still clung to, feelings buried so deeply that all the metal and wiring in the multiverse couldn’t snuff them out.

Morty ground his teeth together. He would not be so forgiving if their paths crossed again. He promised himself this as he scurried onto that ship with the other Rickless Mortys. He’d make Rick pay for abandoning him; he’d make them both pay. He’d simply have to work harder next time.

 

The faux Morty stares defiantly from across the desk, giant scorpions flanking either side of him. In the single, dim light overhead, he looks much older than his fifteen years, older than Morty feels _he_ could ever be, in spite of his weariness and all the things he’s seen.

He’s since stopped counting his age. Time doesn’t matter much to him anymore. Not with so little to look forward to.

Faux Morty stands up straight with his fists clenched, gaze daring him to make the first move. He doesn’t so much as flinch when one of the scorpions snaps his claws shut in what had been intended as a show of dominance. Even Summer seems more invested than he remembers her being in his time, hanging back by the door and giving him the evil eye. He thinks she might be trembling, though; if she’s scared, she has good reason to be.

They very well may not make it out alive. From this room. From this dimension. From what they’re asking of him.

He leans forward in his chair and places his elbows on the desk, threading his fingers together. He wonders if he should have worn the eyepatch tonight, to make his eventual refusal more dramatic. “And why should I help you?” he breathes, lips pressed against his thumbs.

Summer tilts her head to the side; across from him, the faux Morty frowns.

“Because...we both know what it’s like to have lost him.”

Morty sits back and ponders his words, thinks of Rick with equal amounts of animosity and, despite himself, fondness: His face, his laugh, his drinking, his stubbornness.

His kindness.

His sadness.

His suffering.

He gathers all of these memories until they bleed into something inseparable from the both of them. He looks at the faux Morty and tries to cover his sigh.

“Fine. I’ll do it.”

Revenge would just have to wait until next time.


End file.
